


tangled between your little flaws

by thistidalwave



Series: the problem with love is [2]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/pseuds/thistidalwave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uni AU. When Niall and Liam kick Harry out of his room so they can have sex, Harry is forced to find somewhere else to hang out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tangled between your little flaws

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Calley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bitnotgood) and [rumpledlinen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpledlinen) for listening to me complain, and [croissantkatie]() for the Britpick! :)

There’s a rubber band on the doorknob again. 

Harry had been about to open the door to his flat, but his fingers caught on something that was decidedly not smooth metal, and he’d looked down to see a bright orange rubber band staring up at him accusingly. He’d dropped his hand and backed away from the door like he’d been burned. 

He’s left standing in the middle of the corridor, staring at the door, trying desperately not to imagine what Niall and Liam must be up to in there and wondering just where he’s supposed to go. 

The rubber band had been green yesterday. Harry is starting to regret his decision to buy the pack of colourful rubber bands when he’d suggested this more subtle version of the classic sock on the doorknob. They’re taunting him: _haha, you’re not the one getting some tonight._

This isn’t what he signed up for when he agreed to share a flat with Niall this year. At the very least he should’ve pushed for one away from campus. Maybe they could have found one with walls that at least sort of blocked out sound. 

Probably not. 

Harry adjusts his backpack and heads back the way he came. He’d been studying in the library with Zayn, but Zayn is planning on going to bed, so he can’t go bother him some more. He shoots off a quick text to Louis to see what he’s doing, but it’s barely a minute before Louis texts back that he’s also going to bed. Harry sighs to himself. If only Liam and Niall behaved like normal people and were _also_ asleep.

He concludes that his best bet is probably to go wander around the student union, maybe get a snack from a vending machine, and try to have a kip on a sofa somewhere until Niall texts him that it’s all right to come back.

He’s trying to convince a vending machine to give him the packet of crisps he just bought by cooing at it and prodding the buttons when someone comes up and shakes the entire machine. The crisps obediently drop into the bottom. 

“Whoa,” Harry says, looking up at a familiar face.

“You have to be harsh with it,” Nick says. “It doesn’t much care for sweet talk.” 

“I was starting to get that impression, yeah,” Harry admits. He knows Nick fairly well, mostly from a seminar they had together last semester and from seeing him around campus, but they’ve only hung out a couple times, and never alone. “Thanks.”

“No problem. What are you doing hanging around here so late, anyway?” Nick asks. His teasing smile is nonchalant to match his lean against the vending machine.

“My flatmate and his boyfriend are, um. I’m locked out of my room.” Harry gestures vaguely, and Nick stares at him for a moment before realisation dawns on his face and he starts smirking. “So, I. Yeah,” Harry finishes lamely. “How do you know the secrets of this vending machine?”

“The radio station is just ‘round the corner,” Nick says. “Speaking of, my show’s on air right now and I’m not entirely sure I left enough music to last this long.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling his chances of not being entirely bored for the next however long dwindle as Nick starts to turn away.

Nick pauses, though. “Come along if you want. And bring the crisps, I wanted a snack.”

Harry nearly brains himself in his haste to get the crisps out of the machine and hurry after Nick. He almost walks straight past the radio station, but he catches himself at the last second.

The radio station is cramped, one tiny hallway leading straight down and branching off. Harry has no idea which way Nick went, so he hedges his bets and walks to the very end. It’s a no-go, the room full of CDs, but when Harry turns around he can hear Nick’s voice. He manages to follow it to the end of another narrow hallway, where there’s a door reading STUDIO 3 on the left and a mangy looking sofa on the right, and when Harry peers through the small window next to the door, he can see the back of Nick’s head.

He eyes the sofa warily, then shrugs and takes off his backpack, ditching it to the side before sitting down. The sofa is surprisingly comfortable for all it looks close to falling apart. Harry lies down on it. He’d thought it was grey, but up close there are tiny bits of bright pink in the fabric, like once upon a time it had been the colour of a flamingo. 

“I see you’ve met Lady Sherry,” Nick says from the doorway. 

Harry jumps in surprise and then furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“The sofa,” Nick clarifies. “Don’t ask me why she’s got a name, but she does.” He leans down and tugs the packet of crisps out of Harry’s hand, casually opening it and sticking one in his mouth. Harry finds he doesn’t actually mind too much, especially when Nick then offers the packet to Harry.

“It’s nice, though, that she’s got a name,” Harry says, taking a crisp. “She’s got lots of personality, so it’s only fair.”

Nick laughs. “I guess so.”

There’s a bit of a silence, then, in which Nick eats the crisps and Harry tries not to stare. “So, um, I like this song,” he says eventually, gesturing at the air. The radio is playing some sort of indie song that Harry’s never heard before. It’s strange and seems to be lacking a melody, but Harry figures he isn’t lying. He doesn’t feel like his ears are bleeding, anyway. 

Nick looks surprised. “Really?”

Harry nods. “It’s interesting. The good sort of interesting, not the bad kind.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Nick says. “I wouldn’t want it to be bad interesting.” 

“Better to be any kind of interesting rather than none at all.” Harry tugs the packet of crisps out of Nick’s hands and eats the last few himself. He’s shaking the crumbs into the corner so he can tip them into his mouth when Nick responds.

“Seems right enough.”

Harry nearly spills the crumbs everywhere. “Huh?” he says, mouth full, then realises as he swallows what Nick had been referring to. “Oh, yeah.”

Nick’s mouth is twitching up at the corner like he’s trying to suppress a grin. “Give me that,” he says, snagging the crisp packet and tossing it in the bin next to the sofa.

“I could have done that,” Harry points out.

“I know,” Nick says, and then he disappears back into the booth. 

-

He doesn’t intend for it to become a thing, but is it really his fault if Niall and Liam are insatiable sex fiends? No. No, it is not. 

“Friends for life, I think,” Nick says one night.

Harry blinks his eyes open and squints at Nick in confusion. “What’s that?” He thinks he’d been almost asleep, curled into Lady Sherry’s threadbare, yet warm, embrace. The book he’s meant to be reading for his English class is perched facedown on his chest. 

“You and the lady,” Nick clarifies. 

Harry had been rather hoping he’d missed something crucial and that Nick was referring to their relationship, because he thinks he would like being friends for life with Nick, but the sofa works as well. He makes a show of rubbing his cheek against its arm. “We’re very close,” he says seriously. 

Nick smiles slightly, a teasing curve at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll just bet you are.” 

Harry finds him enthralling and infuriating. He knows that Nick is a talkative person, his radio show is the prime example of that, but somehow Nick never seems to say very much to Harry. They talk, sure, but only about nothing in particular, or Nick will say something with meaning, Harry will stare at him, and Nick will disappear back into the studio. 

That’s what happens now. Harry stares at the place where Nick’s skinny jean clad legs had just been, then picks up his book and pretends to read it. Really, he’s listening to Nick laugh into his microphone as he tells a story about one of his friends.

It would be nice, Harry thinks, to be one of Nick’s many friends that he talks about on air. 

-

It’s absolutely pissing down outside, and of course it had decided to begin to do so just as Harry was walking across campus. His hair is flattened pathetically, curling over his eyes, and he’s dreaming of stripping out of his soaked clothes and taking a warm shower.

The elastic on the doorknob is a bright pink. 

Harry groans and lets his forehead fall against the door. For a moment, he despairs of Nick seeing him like this, but he shoves that thought away and heads to the radio station anyway. 

Nick laughs when he sees him, loud and unreserved, and Harry can’t help but smile sheepishly. 

“You look like a drowned rat,” Nick tells him. 

“Heyyyy,” Harry says, pouting. 

“I can get you a dry jumper, I think there’s one hanging around here,” Nick says. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” 

The jumper Nick finds is ridiculous—there’s a photograph of a kitten emblazoned across it—but Harry accepts it from Nick gratefully, stripping off his own brown one along with his t-shirt. He drapes his wet clothes over the back of Lady Sherry and takes a moment to see if Nick is watching him. He tries not to be disappointed when Nick is looking in the other direction. 

The jumper is huge on him, but it’s gloriously warm and smells like the radio station and Nick. He wraps the ends of the sleeves around his hands like mitts and pushes his hair out of his eyes. 

“I don’t have any spare trousers, unfortunately,” Nick says, eyeing Harry. 

Harry looks down at his jeans and winces. They cling even tighter when they’re wet, and they’re not loose to start with. He shrugs. “That’s all right, I’ll live,” he says. “What are you talking about on the show tonight?” 

“Oh, I dunno,” Nick says. “The rain, probably.” He disappears into the studio before Harry can respond.

-

Harry tosses the paper with the instructions for his essay on the floor rather than his laptop, which is what he really wants to throw. The paper skids across the floor and comes to rest just underneath Nick’s trainers. 

Nick leans down and picks it up. “What are you throwing around?” he asks teasingly. 

“I can’t figure out what I want to say about this stupid topic,” Harry complains. 

Nick sits down next to Harry on the sofa, eyes fixed on the paper. “Which one are you doing?” 

Harry frowns. He honestly hadn’t expected Nick to start helping him. He’d been thinking that Nick viewed him as that mildly annoying undergrad who’s always hanging around, not as a friend to help out. “Um, the first one?” 

Nick makes a considering noise, then shakes his head. “Why don’t you do the one on subcultures instead?” 

“Uh,” Harry says, “we didn’t cover that topic as much in class…”

“Okay, stop me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t you say that the beginnings of hip-hop culture in the seventies would be a perfect example?” He looks at Harry expectantly. 

Harry stares back at him. “I don’t actually know much about seventies hip-hop,” he says cautiously.

Nick grins. “Give me a minute to put some more songs in the queue,” he says. “This could take awhile.”

It turns out, to no one’s surprise, that it’s hard to get Nick to shut up about things he cares about once he gets going. Not that Harry would ever want Nick to shut up; he would gladly listen to Nick gush about music history for years, if possible. He keeps Nick talking for so long, in fact, that Nick almost forgets to even sign off at the end of his slot. 

“Thanks,” Harry says when they’re standing outside the radio station, Nick making sure the door is locked behind them. Harry’s clutching the notebook he’d scribbled notes in to his chest and doing his best to not let the stars in his eyes turn to hearts. 

“My pleasure,” Nick says. “Let me know if you need me to read over your rough draft or something.” 

“I’m sure I’ll be back soon, in any case,” Harry says, sighing for dramatic effect. 

Nick smiles and claps Harry’s upper arm in goodbye. Harry’s arm tingles the entire walk back to his room. 

-

Harry abruptly realises he’d never exchanged numbers with Nick when he finishes his paper and doesn’t have a way to ask Nick where he can send it. He tries looking up Nick on Facebook, but he doesn’t have contact info publicly listed, and he doesn’t immediately accept Harry’s friend request. At that point, it’s late enough for Harry to weigh his options and, for the first time, actually pack up to go to the radio station while his room is completely safe to be in. He figures he just won’t mention that.

It turns out to not be a problem, because Nick’s not the one sitting at the microphone when Harry wanders in. Instead, it’s a very tall man who smiles politely at Harry and asks if he’s lost. 

“No!” Harry says too quickly. “I mean, no, I was just… looking for Nick?” 

“Oh, are you Harry?” the man asks. “You must be. Nick’s just off for the night, asked me to fill in for him. I’m Greg.” He sticks out a hand for Harry to shake. 

“Er, s’nice to meet you,” Harry says. “Is Nick going to be back tomorrow, do you know?” 

Greg shrugs. “I’d think so, but I dunno. Hey, do you want me to give you his number?” 

Harry frowns. “Well, um. Do you think that’s okay? I wouldn’t want him to think I’m creepy or anything.”

“Nah, mate, I think this is for the best.” Greg smirks the entire time it takes for him to scroll through his phone contacts and write down Nick’s number on a piece of paper for Harry. It’s only a little disconcerting. “Just tell him you got his number from me. And tell him I said he’s welcome, all right?”

“Um, okay,” Harry says. 

“See you around, Harry.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Harry has the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at, but he can’t figure out what he did wrong.

-

“Yeah, I know Greg,” Niall says, mouth full of biscuit. He’d bought Harry his favourite kind of biscuits as an apology for all the sexiling, which is something Harry could be 110% on board with continuing, and now he’s eating most of them himself, which kind of sums up Niall where food is involved. “He’s loads of fun. Why?” 

Harry shrugs. “He seemed nice,” he says. He breaks a biscuit in half, then in quarters. “Do you think it’s okay to text Nick even though he didn’t give me his number himself?” 

“Maybe,” Niall says. “Wait, you said you go hang out with him every time we lock you out, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And you never got his number before this?” 

“Didn’t really need to, I guess.”

“Well, dude, judging by the amount of sex I’m having lately, you’ve spent enough time with Nick for it not to be strange if you text him. You can blame me if it goes horribly wrong, and I’ll, like, buy you more biscuits or something.” 

“And then eat them yourself?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Niall has enough grace to look at least a little chagrined, but he just shrugs. “They’re right in front of me.” 

Harry gives up and texts Nick. Nick texts back right away, and it’s not weird. 

-

Harry is feeling bored and slightly unsettled in his skin, so he follows Nick into the studio instead of sitting in his regular corner of the sofa. Harry thinks that Lady Sherry just might have an indentation the size and shape of him at this point. 

“What are you doing?” Nick asks, pulling on his headphones and raising his eyebrows. Harry sits down in one of the chairs meant for guests and smiles. 

“I think you should let me talk on the thing,” he says. 

“Oh, I should, should I? What are you going to say?” 

Harry exaggerates his northern accent and fails at trying to mimic Nick’s quick way of speaking. “Hiiii, I’m Nick Grimshaw, and that was my favourite record. I’m _obsessed_ with that record, aren’t you all? That’s what I thought, because I’m awesome.”

Nick snorts. “I do _not_ sound like that.” 

“You do,” Harry insists, even though Nick doesn’t. 

“You’re not exactly making a good case for yourself,” Nick says. 

Harry sticks his lower lip out and flutters his eyelashes. Nick laughs and tosses a pen at him. Harry only just ducks out of the way. “Please?” he asks, doing his best to sound pathetic.

“Be quiet, I’m going on air,” Nick tells him. Harry makes a show of pretending to zip his lips and throw away the key, which makes Nick laugh slightly on air. Harry sits back, pleased. 

Nick is talking about his favourite new singles released this week by obscure bands that absolutely no one has heard of when Harry finds a blank piece of paper underneath a stack of CDs and starts strategically ripping it up into small pieces. He can see Nick eyeing him suspiciously even as he keeps talking.

Harry balls up his pieces of paper and starts throwing them at Nick. He’s trying to see if he can get one right in the middle of Nick’s quiff, but Nick keeps dodging. His broadcast probably sounds ridiculous, but Harry can tell Nick thinks it’s hilarious. He lands a shot straight to Nick’s cheekbone, and Nick falters.

“Okay, time for some music, because I have a guest here in the studio that I need to tell off,” Nick says, going into a track that starts with the sound of rain. He picks up one of the balled up papers that had landed on the desk and throws it back at Harry. It lands in his fringe, and Harry crosses his eyes to look at it. 

“How come you managed to do what I was trying to do on the first try?” Harry complains. 

“Because I’m better than you,” Nick says, sniffing haughtily. “And I have infinite more class.” 

He does let Harry talk on the radio after that, though. Harry thinks that maybe he’d always been intending to, even though Harry doesn’t really know what to say and mostly laughs. Nick smiles at him, anyway, and the inside of Harry’s chest becomes the sky. 

-

“So that party on Saturday,” Harry says, trying to be casual. He’s staring at a worksheet about 19th century Spain, drawing spirals up and down the margins. “Are you going to that?” 

“The one with the signs all over campus?” Nick asks from where he’s standing in the doorway of the studio, examining a CD’s track list. “I dunno.”

Harry tries not to frown. “Well, Louis wants to go, so I probably will.” 

Nick hums in response. Harry tries to find the words to ask if maybe, possibly, by chance, Nick would like to go to the party _with_ Harry, but they get lost between his teeth, carving tiny little cavities to hide themselves in. 

-

Harry quite literally stumbles into Nick at the party. It’s not his fault; if anyone, Nick is to blame. It’s a neon themed party, so everyone is meant to be wearing bright clothes that will glow under the blacklights, and they’re provided with blacklight paint and highlighters to go wild with. Nick is wearing black, not painted at all, and hovering next to the bar. He’s lucky Harry wasn’t carrying a drink. (This is because he’d just finished his fourth, but that’s neither here nor there.) 

“Oh God, sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t _see_ you. Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Nick says, and Harry nearly hits him again when he looks up. 

“Nick! You’re here!”

“Guess I am,” Nick says, shoving his hands half into the pockets of his jeans. He looks like he’s trying to be casual, but the flush of pink at the back of his neck that Harry can see with every flash of the strobe light is betraying him. 

Harry grins and tugs at Nick’s hand. “We need to get you colourful!” he informs Nick. “So that people don’t, like, bump into you anymore. Zayn had some paint, last I saw.”

Nick might say _okay_ , but Harry can’t hear him. He can feel him following along close behind Harry, and he can feel his fingers gripping Harry’s wrist, and that’s all the confirmation Harry could ever need or want.

Harry’s friends enthusiastically greet Nick and waste no time in covering him with blacklight paint, splatters up and down his clothes and swirling around his arms. Nick grins and bears it, even when Niall coats his hand in fluorescent green before shoving it through Nick’s quiff. 

“Your friends are strange!” Nick yells in Harry’s ear. Harry smiles, tilts his head, and nods. 

“I guess that means you’re strange, too!” 

Nick looks surprised, and Harry worries for a second that he’s gone too far, lips made too loose by alcohol. He’d thought they were the kind of friends where you can say things like that, but maybe that was a presumption Harry shouldn’t be making. Nick laughs, though, loud and quick. “I guess so,” he says, quieter this time. When he exhales, Harry can feel it against the side of his neck. 

Another drink and a lot of dances later, Harry carefully draws a yellow highlighter heart on Nick’s hand, right where his thumb curves into his palm. He folds Nick’s fingers down over it and avoids making eye contact. 

-

Liam is just leaving the flat when Harry gets back from the library one night. Harry watches him take the yellow elastic that had been on the doorknob and slide it around his wrist instead. He has a fond smile on his face that makes Harry feel like he’s just intruded on a private moment.

“Hey,” Harry says. 

“Oh, hey, Harry! What’s up, man?” 

Harry shrugs. “Not a lot, mate, what about you?”

Liam shrugs back. “How’s your boyfriend?” he asks, casual as can be, and Harry’s heart stutters. 

“I don’t—um. Have one.”

Liam’s eyebrows furrow. “I thought that guy from the radio—Nick, right? I thought you were, y’know, at the party… huh, well. Must’ve thought wrong.”

“Must’ve,” Harry agrees. His throat is awfully dry, and no amount of swallowing is helping.

“Well, see you around,” Liam says, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he passes. 

“See you,” Harry says. 

-

Harry settles onto what he thinks of as his bench outside the radio station and pulls out his phone for a scroll through Instagram. He expects Nick to wish him good night and continue on out of the student union building, but instead he stops.

“Um,” he says. 

Harry looks up from his phone. “What’s up?”

“Do you want to come back to my flat with me for a bit?” Nick asks, all in a rush. Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. This is far from the first time Niall hasn’t texted the all clear until after Nick had gone home for the night, and normally Harry just sits right here on this bench until he does. Nick has never once mentioned it before. Harry hadn’t thought it even worth mentioning.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks cautiously. He doesn’t want to upset the balance they have going right now; everything has been a tinge strange since the neon party, and Harry fears it getting worse. He could be making it up, but still. “I’m sure I’ll be able to go home soon.” 

Nick shrugs. “I don’t like thinking of you sitting here bored. And you’ve never been to mine, so.” He shrugs again.

Harry gets to his feet. “All right then.”

Nick drives them back to his place, blasting pop music the whole way. Harry keeps his hands folded on top of his bag in his lap and tries not to be obvious about studying Nick’s profile. 

Nick’s flat is on the second floor of a boring cement block of flats. Harry marvels that such a terrible looking building could house a small space brimming with life—because that’s what Nick’s flat is. The walls of every room are covered in both posters and art. There’s a Katy Perry poster next to a gorgeous abstract in the corner of the tiny kitchen.

“The walls were boring, and I’m not allowed to paint them,” Nick explains when he notices Harry looking. “I’ve got a couple of friends who are artists, so.” 

“I like it,” Harry says. 

“Yes, well. Do you want some tea?” 

Harry nods, and Nick busies himself with that. When he opens his cupboards, Harry can see a whole assortment of mismatched mugs, though the ones Nick takes out are fairly sedate blue and grey. 

Nick didn’t tell him to sit down or anything, so Harry wanders into the living room. Nick has a collection of CDs by the TV, with a couple of actual records propped on their own shelf next to them, and Harry flips through it a little before realising that it’s actually organised and stopping so that he doesn’t fuck it up. 

There’s a rather large green armchair shoved into the other corner of the room. The corners of the back of it are distended, reaching up as though to create a deep smiley face between them, and the fabric looks soft. Harry glances toward the kitchen, where Nick is banging around with a tea kettle, and then runs a careful hand across the arm of the chair. He doesn’t know why he feels like he shouldn’t touch it, but he does. 

“Does the chair have a name?” Harry asks, wandering back into the kitchen. 

Nick jumps. “Oh! Um, no? Sometimes Aimee calls it the green monster, but otherwise nah. It’s not as special as Lady Sherry.” He smiles wryly, then frowns. “Well, I guess the fact that I knew what chair you meant says something.” 

“I think anyone would know what chair I meant,” Harry says. 

Nick shrugs and turns away to pour the water over the teabags before poking at them with a spoon. “What do you want in this?” 

“However you take it is fine,” Harry says. Nick looks momentarily confused by this and then nearly spills the sugar all over the counter. He does manage to spill a tiny bit of the milk and swears under his breath, wiping it up with the sleeve of his jumper. 

“There,” he says when he’s happy with the tea, and he lets Harry trail after him to the living room. He tuts at the coffee table covered in papers and asks Harry to take the mugs from him. Their fingers brush against each other in the trade off, and Harry has to concentrate on not shaking so that he doesn’t spill the tea. “Henry’s always leaving his stuff everywhere, I swear,” Nick grumbles. “Doesn’t even live here anymore, the bastard.”

Harry thinks he sees the outline of a dress on one of the papers and ventures, “Fashion?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. He sits, and Harry hands him his tea—he’s decided completely arbitrarily that the blue one is Nick’s—and sits himself. “Henry’s kind of a genius with that stuff, I don’t know how he does it.”

“This one’s nice,” Harry says, leaning forward to pick one up. It looks like it might be meant as a wedding gown, but it’s got swatches of purple colour down the side, so maybe not.

“It is,” Nick agrees. “I think they’re all nice, I don’t really… know the difference. Maybe a little, but.”

“You’re pretty fashionable,” Harry says. He knows this to be true from occasionally seeing Nick around campus during the day, when he wears nice clothing. It often involves jackets. A lot of the time scarves. Harry thinks that’s basically the pinnacle of fashion. 

He tugs on the hem of Nick’s jumper when he doesn’t respond, and Nick looks up from his tea sharply. “If you’re referring to this ratty old thing,” he says, “you’re mad.”

“Maybe I’m a little mad,” Harry says. The hand holding his tea is shaking, so he puts the mug down on the coffee table. His fingers are wrapped firmly in the soft purple fabric of Nick’s jumper. He sticks a finger through a hole just barely big enough for it and wiggles it. Nick snorts.

They’re very close to each other, Harry realises. Like, barely an inch separating them on the sofa close. Nick is still holding on to his mug with both hands. 

“I like mad,” Nick says, making eye contact, and Harry imagines what it would be like to lean in until there’s no space separating them at all, to press his lips against Nick’s and pray that Nick kisses him back, to whisper secrets into Nick’s skin and know that they’ll be kept there. If there was ever such a time that was made for closing the distance between them, then this, in all its dimly lit, impromptu glory, is it. 

He doesn’t, though, frozen with indecision and terror, and in the next moment Nick sips his tea and Harry lets his grip go slack. The distance between them seems to widen tenfold. Harry wonders if Nick can feel it at all, or if it’s only his own world that seems to be swinging wildly off into hinterland. 

Nick’s sofa is dark blue with tiny little dots covering the entire thing. Harry becomes rather intimately acquainted with them in the silence that follows, but he never quite figures out whether they’re meant to be light blue or white, no matter how hard he tries. 

Nick drives Harry back to his own flat eventually, wishing him a cheerful goodbye at the door. Harry grins and waves and tries not to picture islands.

-

“Have you ever known that a certain moment was meant for something, but then you let it pass you by?” Harry asks. “I mean, like, stared it straight in the face and not been able to do a damn thing?”

“I tend to hit things that are in my face,” Louis says mildly. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Harry tucks his chin into his folded arms on top of the table in the library. “I bet that’s what it feels like to stand in the middle of a hurricane.”

“Seriously, dude, you need to chill,” Louis says. “Don’t compare shit to devastating natural disasters, you sound like a pretentious dick.”

Harry sighs. Louis mimics him, rolling his eyes. He pauses for a moment, flipping a page of his textbook without reading it, and then narrows his eyes. “Is this about Nick?”

Harry considers the question. He wouldn’t think it’s a question that needs considering, really, maybe just a yes and an eye roll and everyone can move on with their lives, but fuck it. He has a major essay due next week that he doesn’t want to think about, and Louis is asking, and if Harry doesn’t give a full answer, Louis will just make fun of him, because that’s what Louis does. He makes jokes. Harry loves that about him. 

“There’s this thing about Nick that’s been bothering me,” Harry says. “It’s not, like, a new thing. It’s been bugging me ever since we started hanging out.”

“Do tell.” 

“It’s like, I know he’s a talkative person. He does the _radio_ , for fuck’s sake, and he has so many friends that he keeps in full-on contact with. I know he knows how to have a conversation. So why is it that he barely ever talks to me?” 

Louis gives him a quizzical look. “Don’t you spend literally every night with him? Don’t you talk then?” 

“Not _every_ night,” Harry says, even though it might as well be. “And yeah, but like, not really? It’s like we say a lot, but we’re not _saying_ much. Whenever the conversation really goes anywhere, he just stops talking.” He’d used to think that Nick only did it when he said something meaningful, but now he does it even when they’re talking about arbitrary things. Harry doesn’t get it. He’s listened to Nick ramble for ages about things he didn’t have a clue about, but never with Harry. The closest he’s come is when Nick helped him with his first essay. 

Louis is quiet for a moment. “Maybe some things are too much for words,” he says eventually.

Harry can’t help but laugh. “Careful, you’ll turn into the pretentious one.” 

Louis punches him in the arm. “Hey, I’m talking about something I actually have experience with, not a bloody hurricane.”

Harry clutches at his arm and pouts. Louis rolls his eyes, and they both move on with their lives.

-

Harry hands in his major essay and feels like he’s sprouted wings. He texts Nick three smiley faces, lies down on his bed, and breathes. 

Nick texts back _all sorted then? x_

_Out of my hands now,_ Harry texts back. _You busy?? x_

Nick isn’t busy, apparently, for once in his life, and Harry coerces him into taking Harry to the record shop he’s always going on about. 

Harry can see why Nick likes it from the second they step inside. It reminds him of Nick’s flat, not in looks, but in the way Harry immediately feels at home. It’s cluttered, but easy to navigate, and an Irish woman with wild curls greets them enthusiastically.

“Nick! Haven’t seen you in a while, how’ve you been? Is this Harry? Must be, am I right? I’m Annie.” She offers her hand to Harry. He shakes it, wondering how she knows who he is but not wanting to ask.

“I think you’re scaring him, Annie,” Nick says, grinning. He hugs her hello warmly. Harry does his best not to be jealous, because that would be stupid. 

“This looks like a lovely place,” he says instead. 

Annie smiles at him. “Thanks! It’s built on love and a little bit of luck, like all the best places, I think. Definitely have a look around if you want. Nick, I’ve got some things set aside for you?” 

Nick nods. He touches Harry’s wrist gently, just for a moment, and gestures around. “Have a look, since you were so keen. I’ll come find you once Annie stops talking my ear off.” 

Harry wanders up and down the aisles, idly flipping through sections without really looking, until he finds a small corner in the back with two chairs shoved together next to a shelf that holds both a CD player and a record player. He smiles to himself and goes to find something good to put on.

When Nick finds him, he’s on track five of Coldplay’s _A Rush of Blood to the Head_ , curled up in a chair and humming along. 

“Hey there,” Nick says, nudging Harry’s foot with his. He contemplates the other chair for a moment, then sits down. 

Harry smiles over at him. “Good chat?”

“Oh, yeah,” Nick says. “Love Annie, always great.”

Harry itches to ask why Nick’s capable of talking to other people nonstop for over half an hour and not Harry, but he doesn’t. “This used to be my favourite song,” he says instead.

“Clocks?” Nick asks. Harry shrugs. They’re silent for a moment, Chris Martin crooning _you are home, where I wanted to go_ , and then Nick nods. “Good choice.”

-

Nick’s shirt is a terrible grey paisley, the top buttons undone so that Harry can just glimpse chest hair, and he can’t stop staring. 

“Help,” he whispers to Lady Sherry when Nick turns away to talk to his audience. Lady Sherry does not respond. 

His phone buzzes a couple minutes later. _Where r ya mate! Coast is clear haha !_

Maybe Lady Sherry did respond after all, Harry muses. Too bad he didn’t really want the help. 

_Gonna get some actual studying done, are you? I’ll be back later, don’t wait up x_

-

“Wait,” Harry says, sitting up straight on Nick’s sofa. “You have a kitchen.”

Nick looks at him blankly. “Yeah, so?”

“Your own kitchen that you don’t have to share with anyone.”

“Yeah?” 

“Can I use it?” 

“Well, uh.” Nick glances over at the kitchen. “I guess so?” 

Harry decides that since it’s nearly Christmas (“It’s still November, Harold.” “Shut up, Nicholas.”), he simply must make shortbread cookies. They end up having to go grocery shopping for ingredients, so Harry picks up things to make curry with as well. 

Nick sits in the kitchen the entire time Harry is baking and cooking, making fun of the way Harry stirs and stealing things when he thinks Harry isn’t looking. Harry is always looking, but he lets Nick get away with it anyway.

-

It’s perpetually cold now, and definitely December, and so Nick has no excuse to say no when Harry insists they go shopping for Christmas presents. Nick wears an absurdly large teal scarf and deep pink mittens, and he looks mildly annoyed and completely ridiculous. 

They mostly stick to the side street of independent shops that Annie’s record shop is on, ducking in and out and cooing over useless trinkets. They model an array of dresses for each other at the thrift shop solely because they can and it’s hilarious, and, later in the afternoon, when they’ve finished shopping for everyone else, they silently go separate ways on the street. 

Harry finds Nick again sitting on a bench outside the bakery. As far as he can tell, he hasn’t acquired anymore bags than he had last time Harry saw him. “May as well exchange these now, don’t you think?” Harry says, sitting down next to Nick. 

“Sure,” Nick agrees. “Go on, then.” 

Harry offers the bag from the antique shop to Nick. “Pretend it’s wrapped nicely and there’s a lovely card wishing you all the best this holiday season.”

“Oooh, such a lovely card, signed and all,” Nick says. He shuffles around the packing paper in the bag and pulls out a ceramic elephant. It’s painted a pink that clashes with his mittens, its trunk raised in salute, and Nick’s eyebrows go skyward at the sight of it. “Wow.”

“I think it’ll fit right in next to your green chair,” Harry says, trying to suppress laughter. “And elephants never forget.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” Nick says, tucking the elephant back into the bag. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry shrugs. “You’re welcome.” 

“I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything quite so colourful,” Nick says, tugging something small out of his jacket pocket and offering it to Harry. 

Harry takes it and squints. He’s not quite sure what it is at first, thinks it might be just a fake diamond of some sort, but then he realises that it’s meant to be a clip-on earring. He grins and slides it off its holder so he can put it on. “Ridiculously shiny,” he says. “And only one! The new craze, no doubt.”

“Exactly,” Nick says. He reaches out and taps the earring, sending it swinging around. “Knew it would suit you.” 

Harry takes a moment to preen, then grabs Nick’s mitten right off his hand and runs off down the street. 

Nick squawks in protest and runs after him.

-

Harry’s lying on the floor of Zayn’s room, staring at the ceiling and being glad he doesn’t have any more exams to worry about. Zayn is lying on his bed, pretending he doesn’t have an exam the next day.

“So, like,” Zayn says, “I heard this song on the radio that I really liked? Thought you might know what it is?” 

Harry hums in response. “I’m in love with a guy off the radio, so maybe,” he says, surprising himself.

Zayn is silent. Harry contemplates the taste of truth in his mouth. “Well, I was gonna offer you some of this sick weed I got,” Zayn says eventually, “but you’re already talking about your feelings, so maybe you don’t need it.”

Harry sits up. “Zayn,” he says. He’s never needed more words than he does right now. “I’m in _love_. I want to tell the whole goddamn world.”

“You’re, like, not convincing me to share the weed,” Zayn says. “Congrats, though.”

-

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says. Nick is closing the studio door behind him, finished broadcasting his last show until after the Christmas break, and he looks at Harry in confusion. 

“Thinking? Oh dear, you know what I’ve said about that.”

Harry smiles in spite of himself. “Can you sit?” He pats the empty space on Lady Sherry next to him.

Nick does. “Okay, now we’re sitting, and you’ve been thinking.” He looks poised to run away. Harry resists the urge to put his hand on Nick’s leg to keep him there. “What have you been thinking about?” 

“It’s something Louis said,” Harry starts carefully. “Something about some things being too much for words.”

Nick worries his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn’t say anything. Harry soldiers on.

“I’ve decided I think that’s stupid,” he says. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Okay,” Nick says.

“Why is it that you barely talk to me?” 

Nick looks at him like he’s lost it. Harry feels a little like he has. “We talk all the time.” 

“I know, sorry. I mean, like, I feel like all of our conversations end in the middle. Do you know what I’m saying?” He holds his breath. If Nick says no, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Cry, maybe. Later, not right now. 

Nick doesn’t say no. He’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands, but then he looks at Harry and nods. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I don’t know how to act around you, so I just… don’t.”

Harry nods, because that seems like the thing to do. He doesn’t get it, not really, because why wouldn’t Nick know how to act around him? Nick’s the one with the life experience. He’s the one who knows things. Harry has life changing revelations while lying on his friends’ bedroom floors. 

“So, um,” Harry presses on. He’s gone over how to say this in his head a million times, but he’s suddenly forgotten every word in the English language. Nick waits patiently until Harry remembers. “Liam once asked me if… well, he didn’t ask me if you were my boyfriend, actually, he just kind of assumed, but the point is that you’re not, you weren’t, but I kind of want you to be? No, wait, that’s not a question. I do want you to be. Uh. If you want?”

“What?” Nick asks. “That was a bit of a ramble, love.”

“I’m in love with you,” Harry says. 

“Oh.” Nick’s cheeks are pink, now, Harry notices, and his eyes are wide. Harry feels like he’s ages away from himself, possibly floating somewhere nice and blue and calm like Nick’s eyes. “ _Oh_. I had no idea you felt that way.” 

“You don’t have to, um, say anything, I just wanted to—”

“No,” Nick says firmly. He reaches for Harry’s hand. Harry lets him take it, hoping he won’t notice that Harry is shaking slightly. 

“Okay.” 

“I didn’t know,” Nick repeats, “but I hoped. I tried not to, because it seemed so far-fetched, but Harry. I’ve been trying so hard not to fall for you.”

“Did it work?” Harry asks. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Nick says. “I didn’t think I had a chance in hell, but now that I know I do? I think I’ll have Lady Sherry hold you hostage.”

“Well, she’s lovely, but I’m not gonna stick around for her,” Harry says. 

Nick’s laugh sounds slightly incredulous. Harry loops his free hand into Nick’s jumper—a cable knit grey one this time—and tugs him in so their foreheads touch. “Harry,” Nick says, nearly a whisper, “can I—”

“ _Yes_ , please,” Harry says, and then they’re kissing, the space between them collapsed into nothing, and Harry is no longer far away. He’s right here.

-

Harry gets a lot more pleasure out of putting a blue elastic band on the doorknob of the flat than anyone ever really should. Nick laughs at him.


End file.
